


two can keep a secret (if one of us plays dead)

by paperdragon



Series: &&. i've never felt religion till i've lied to you (all them hetalia oneshots that are way too long) [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America/England is only implied b/w the lines ya'll, America/France (Hetalia) - Freeform, M/M, but like only mentioned briefly bcz sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:38:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdragon/pseuds/paperdragon
Summary: Or,Russia and America's terrible, no-good, very bad sex. (&. the follow up, not-so-bad shit. )





	two can keep a secret (if one of us plays dead)

 

**The Geneva Summit – 1985**

So neither of them are exactly sure as to why exactly this is happening; however if asked as to how this situation came about in the first place, they’d probably refuse to acknowledge the way Ivan looked at Alfred: a moment too long and too distinct in its differing aspects of what the look usually illustrated. They’d refuse to acknowledge the way Alfred returned the look: confused for the briefest of instances, head tilted just _so,_ a small tilt of the left corner of his lips as understanding dawned. In fact, if ever asked about any of it, which they’ve both unspeakably agreed will never happen solely because of the fact that they will point-blank evaporate anyone who may have seen or heard of this, they’d simply blame it on the vodka; the shiny, bright _newness_ of their situation. They’d blame it on the too many glasses of wine on the plane, the too many drinks in the hotel bar they’ve been abandoned at, on the shocking prospect of what might be called progress on the sickening stalemate they’ve been running too long and spreading too thin.

That’s how they feel, spread too thin. That feeling of when you’ve had so much to drink that you know you’ve got an exceptional lack of morals and inhibitions, but you don’t really give much of a fuck. You know you’ll regret what you did and said, but in the moment, it’s just pretty funny.

This is how the collectively assumed good-part started: They snuck into the elevator while Ivan pressed ten for his floor and Alfred pressed twelve for his. They stared into the other’s eyes for some inkling of the old competitiveness that now defined their relationship. Alfred kept his thumb jammed against the lit-up twelve button while Ivan sighed though his nose and pulled his finger back. Alfred still felt pretty good about himself; he wasn’t about to lose the home base advantage and he didn’t care if he was being petty.

(That was basically their relationship – being petty to the extent that even other countries were asking whether it was really communism versus capitalism or just a really overblown game of _I-have-a-bigger-penis._ Here’s the whole issue with that concept: Alfred’s pretty sure at one point it can devolve into an _I-have-a-bigger-penis_ game, but at the same time he knows Ivan pretty well over the course of how long he’s spent keeping an eye on him. He knows it goes both ways. And he knows there is no way in hell that either of them would actually show _anything_ in front of _anyone that matters_ solely from the fear that stems from the doubt of _holy-fuck-what-if-his-penis-IS-BIGGER-?-?-!-!-?!_ But with their current unspoken agreement of this never having happened ever before it has even ever happened, they both don’t really mind showing anything.)

Then. Part deux: The entered Alfred’s hotel room, Alfred switched on a single, non-invasive light. Ivan almost twisted his neck to look for cameras in the corners; Alfred giggled and moved towards the bed. They assumed battle positions on the opposite sides of the queen bed and stared at each other for a brief, unyielding moment of utter confusion.

Alfred briefly wondered if Ivan had ever even slept with someone before. Ivan wondered if Alfred had ever slept with someone before. They stood there, blinking owlishly at the other, swaying from the exorbitant amount of alcohol they had both consumed, and the unfamiliarity of the situation. Alfred tried to remember the last time he had done something like this; he could gladly say sometime in the beginning of this century. Ivan, on the other hand, was not quite sure.

Alfred saw Ivan’s hand move towards the suit he was wearing, almost pulling off his coat. He was determined to do one better, and had shed his suit coat and tie in seconds. Ivan’s eyes narrowed- he knew it was a stupid, insignificant battle – but he hated losing even the most insignificant of things to Alfred.

The first expanse of Ivan’s collar was, as loathe as Alfred would be to say it, glorious. It seemed as if for some reason, he had been waiting to see it. Ivan was careful with his scarf, more so than his shirt. Alfred undressed and discarded his clothing with the carefree demeanor of someone with the surety of not having to endure a walk of shame. Neither had said anything.

Was the silence a competition, too? Alfred wondered. He stopped just short of pulling off his unbuttoned shirt and head to the mini bar.  When he returned with a small tasting of vodka and a three-quarter full bottle of Jack Daniels, Ivan was sitting on the left side of the bed, leaning against the headboard with his feet outstretched. He was wearing grey socks with faded gold stripes on them. It was very surreal to see your opponent look so _normal_ in your bed.

Alfred sat on the other end; his head sloshed the way the Jack Daniels did. He passed the small bottle of vodka to Ivan without hesitation and mere seconds later Ivan had clacked it against the side table, hand held out for the whiskey. Alfred ignored it, and gulped down until he felt it burn his numb throat. He noticed his eyes are watering only after he passed the bottle. When Ivan drained the rest and turned towards him, Alfred had a brief moment of disorienting sobriety where he wondered exactly why the fuck he was doing this. From Ivan’s face, he wasn’t having a similar moment. His lips, usually so dull, looked pink from the pressure of the bottle rim against his mouth. It was a stark difference in color, and Alfred leaned in to kiss him.

And now the present: The kiss is, to put it bluntly, not a kiss. Ivan open his mouth because he believes that is the correct route to go about this entire situation; Alfred, with his closed eyes, does not expect this and ends up with his lips crashing into Ivan’s teeth. He pulls back, squinting and ready to pick a fight before he realizes how unintentional it was. Ivan leans in this time, and Alfred meets him halfway. It starts fine, before Alfred opens his mouth and Ivan’s tongue is in his mouth with no forewarning. With its suddenness, it is almost jarring, and the angle is not only terrible for his neck but also the worst vantage point to allow his tongue into Ivan’s. He tolerates it for a moment, and then pulls away. Ivan, who is just getting into the prospect, makes a face.

‘My neck hurts like this, let’s just,’ Alfred says, twisting so he’s somewhat on top of Ivan. He’s hoping gravity might allow him the chance to stick his tongue in, but in a nice way. ‘Okay, cool.’

They kiss again, and Ivan groans into his mouth. Alfred takes advantage and slides the tip of his tongue against Ivan’s lower lip before he’s being pushed to the side.

‘Dude, what the hell?’ Alfred might be a little pissed.

Ivan looks as disgruntled as he feels. ‘Your elbow was in my kidney.’

Alfred shrugs. He didn’t imagine it would be quite this difficult. Maybe letting Francis do all the work after independence really had been the good stuff. ‘Alright, let’s just, sit up and do this.’

They shift again, the kissing resumes. The half sitting isn’t working any miracles, but they decide to take what they can get and just go with it. Alfred has a confused struggle with Ivan’s buttons before giving up and moving to his own, while Ivan works his. He drops his shirt somewhere, and when they feel skin on skin, it’s finally, _finally_ good.

It’s slightly warm in Alfred’s room, and their foreheads are dotted with the sweat of the drunk people who have moved around a little too fast. As Ivan cups the back of Alfred’s head, Alfred moves to tilt his own, deepen the kiss, except Ivan doesn’t see it coming and has his nose bang against Alfred’s.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Ivan says, ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

Alfred cups his own nose, as disgruntled, if not more. ‘Oh please, what is wrong with you? Have you never fuckin’ done this before? ’

This is not what either of them has expected out of such a situation. They’ve both imagined something similar to it, sure – Alfred’s involved a rather angry, borderline fight-like experience where they slammed each other against a wall and rubbed off against each other like teenagers, which although very demeaning was no less satisfying to either. Ivan’s involved a similar scenario, if a bit more developed: he envisioned contextual anger turned fight turned sexual encounter with all the right kind of bruises and the heavy intoxication of lust. Neither had quite envisioned this strange fumbling, confused, and all over disappointing start to events.

‘Oh, please,’ Ivan spits. ‘I’ve been here longer than you have.’

‘And yet you’ve only managed to achieve what I did in less than half the time,’ Alfred hisses.

Neither expected _this,_ although the slow slide to verbal fighting isn’t surprising at all.

‘You capitalist pig,’ Ivan might have meant to yell, but it’s obvious he’s half too drunk and half too angry to manage either properly.

‘You commie bastard,’ Alfred says, more because it’s what he’s supposed to say and less because he means it right now. Just before he’d made a bad decision and moved his face, he’d been on the way to getting turned on, and he could feel Ivan not doing too bad down there either, but _goddamnit_ who the fuck said sex was easy.

Would it be easy with other people? Was this just like, an Ivan thing? An Alfred thing? A both Alfred-and-Ivan thing? What the fuck?

‘Okay, how about I lie down-’ Alfred starts.

‘- And I’m on top, sounds good, yes,’ Ivan finishes.

 They start rearranging themselves with the vigor of those who have put in too much time and effort at this point to simply give up. Alfred strips his pants of the belt he’s been wearing, just on the off chance that it will dig into Ivan’s rib or stomach or _something,_ and then congratulates himself on being the most chivalrous person he knows. While he is mentally showing Arthur the middle finger and proving how he’s more of a gentleman, Ivan carefully arranges himself onto Alfred. Hearing no immediate complaints, he claims success and better prowess, and moves to kiss Alfred’s neck.

With how sensitive his neck is, and how long it’s been, Alfred is hard when he twitches his hips up and feels Ivan’s answering bulge. _Finally,_ he thinks, except it’s steadily getting harder to breathe with Ivan’s chest on his. At least Alfred had been nice enough to have an elbow on the side of the bed. He decides not to complain, because his neck feels nice. Except then Ivan lets the other hand go to bring it to the underside of Alfred’s knee and _man_ , does Alfred need to breathe now.

One hand on Ivan’s shoulder and a solid, ‘off, off, off, Jesus.’ are enough to make Ivan lie back down on his back.

For a minute, they lie there. Alfred catches his breath and wonders at how fucking weird this entire experience is. Ivan wonders why he didn’t just die celibate. In some strange way, they’ve both built up their rivalry so much, it seemed the passion and the fire would boil over to other aspects. Or maybe they’ve just seen too much porn they’ve been sent.

‘Why don’t we just move on to the actual part?’ Alfred suggests. At this point, he’d legit just be happy with a quick fuck, a mediocre orgasm and some sleep.

‘Fine,’ Ivan grunts. ‘Hands and knees, then.’

‘Why the fuck am I bottoming?’ Alfred feels the need to argue this for some reason. ‘I want to top.’

Ivan sighs. He seems to be reconsidering his choices in life. ‘So do I. Do you want to flip a coin, or something?’

Alfred thinks that’s a great idea. ‘That’s a great idea,’ he says, fumbling in his pocket for one. ‘I go for head.’

‘Fuck,’ he says, staring at the definitely-not-head.

‘See,’ Ivan smirks as Alfred gets rid of his pants and underwear, ‘even the universe wants me to top.’

Alfred looks at Ivan’s dick and feels more relieved than anyone should. They’re arguably around the same length; but there are more pressing concerns, surprisingly.  

‘Woah, woah,’ Alfred says, ‘grab the Vaseline first, dude, manners.’

For some reason, the haze of alcohol makes the sight of Ivan’s bits and pieces moving hilarious. Alfred’s spine is vibrating with laughter when Ivan returns.

The stretching is as unsavory as it sounds. It’s not bad or painful, because Ivan’s taking his time, but it’s not exactly good either. Alfred can’t properly remember or recall exactly the last encounter he had, but he’s trying to wonder if it was this depressing too. There’s a brief moment where he just wants to go to sleep, before he feels Ivan withdrawing his fingers and adding more lubricant. His hands on the curve of Alfred’s ass gives Alfred hope, he feels his cock stir and gives himself a hand as Ivan enters him.

And then, nothing much. Maybe it’s the liquor, but Alfred only just feels Ivan inside of him, moving in and out with no particular rhythm. His dick is so disappointed.

They both keep at it, to give each other credit. Ivan tries putting his back into it for some lackluster attempt at finding Alfred’s prostate, but for some reason, there’s too much Vaseline at this point. Alfred takes it for another grueling twenty second mental countdown, and then takes charge.

‘Okay, my turn,’ Alfred says. ‘Come on, hands and knees.’

‘Seriously?’ Ivan says, pulling out. He calculates how desperate he must be to humor this. ‘Seriously?’

‘We’ve all been in that situation, man,’ Alfred says, the Vaseline jar and wiping the excess off his ass. ‘I thought you were older than me, probably have more experience.’

‘Oh, fuck you, America,’ Ivan says, his world lurching as he gets on his hands and knees. He feels very dizzy.

‘Well, you tried and couldn’t do that well either, so,’ Alfred grins, and starts prepping.

To his credit, he tries to make it good. Imagines how good it will feel and how tight Ivan will be around him, and feels his cock swell. Because he’s just a nice guy that way, he even gives Ivan a hand, as he adds another finger.

And to make it better, once he’s in, Alfred experiences the only moment of bliss that he’s seen this entire evening. As he starts to move, Ivan grunts, almost sways under him. To ensure close contact, Alfred removes a hand from the bed and uses it to pull Ivan closer to him. Bad decision; three more shoves in, right when Alfred is thinking that this is it, Ivan sways again, and takes Alfred down the bed. There’s a brief _oof_ from both parties, followed by a _fucking hell_ from Alfred.

When he gets up the next time, he refuses to look at Ivan and just grabs another bottle from the bar. It’s already opened champagne, but since it’s all he has, that’s what he’ll go with. Ivan is sitting on the bed again, leaning against the head board. Alfred suddenly remembers his socks again, and for some reason doesn’t tell him to fuck the fuck off.

As he sits down on the opposite end and drinks from his bottle, Alfred wonders if England and France have ever slept together. He remembers bringing the prospect up with Matthew, and both of them laughing up how great the hate-sex must be.

In some strange attempt at camaraderie between two equally disgraced and disappointed people, he passes some of the champagne to Ivan, who takes it while rubbing his head. Oh, right, his head hit the side table when they fell.

Alfred feels that if wasn’t quite so drunk he’d probably have died of the awkwardness by now. It’s not that he cares about what Ivan thinks of him and his prowess, but at one point it’s only embarrassing to yourself. He slowly slinks down into bed, and after a minute or so, Ivan follows suit. They’re both looking at the patterned ceiling that Alfred’s government is paying for.

‘I don’t get it,’ Alfred says, ‘I really don’t.’

‘You don’t get why it was bad or why you thought it would be any different?’ Ivan asks.

Alfred tries to shrug, but gives up half way. ‘I don’t know. Both, maybe? You’re telling me you didn’t expect _something?_ ’

‘Never thought about it too much,’ Ivan lies, but just enough. ‘But I understand what you mean.’

Alfred turns to face Ivan, and musters up the strength to say what he must. ‘Look, I get it’s been a long time for me and I don’t even remember one of those and the other I don’t want to, and maybe even for you, since, you know, the whole soviet union vibe really isn’t a turn on for _anybody,_ but come on. You’re right, you’ve been here longer than I have. You must have more experience than me.’

Ivan takes a long time to turn around and face Alfred. With how close they are, their noses almost touch. Alfred has the strange urge to giggle on the events of the night, but then Ivan speaks.

‘It has been longer than I would like to admit. More out of choice, which I think you’ll agree with, and more because the only time I indulged in something like this, the results were less than pleasing,’ Ivan says. There’s a slight dusting of red too easily visible on his alabaster skin.

‘Less pleasing than this?’ Alfred snorts. He’ll admit this; his time with Francis still reigns top, if only because it was his first and only time of an orgasm he could remember.

‘Surprising, yes?’ Ivan says, smiling. It’s not one of his strange smiles, the threatening ones he uses for everyone. It seems like it’s there because Ivan’s too drunk to remember to keep it in. ‘But I was not willing first, and then she was not willing after.’

Alfred is not going to ask what in the fuck that is all about. ‘Okay, but if your experience of sex is so bad, why’d you even give this a shot?’

Ivan’s cheeks brighten with red. Alfred is overcome with the urge to lick it, and say something nice. Except, they don’t do shit like that. But, he thinks, we’re so drunk.

‘I expected it to be different,’ Ivan says, softly. Then he giggles. ‘At least we’re both willing.’

Alfred can’t help it, he starts giggling too. It’s the champagne, he thinks, working its happy, bubbly magic. He loves champagne. It’s making everything feel light and hazy, and not too much of a big deal. Like a silly little adventure two boys had at playing men, but neither feels too bad about their inevitable reality check.

‘Thought you said you didn’t think about it too much,’ Alfred teases, over giggles.

 Ivan’s slight dusting turns bright crimson, and he’s trying to frown. Except, he can’t – he’s giggling too much. ‘Well, what I did think about, then.’

Alfred feels the crippling need to over share, like he usually does. Is it over sharing if the other person is doing the same? Is it still over sharing if you do it willingly?

‘Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t even remember what the fuck I did or with who,’ Alfred says, giggling. 'Fuck, maybe it was Arthur, he was always the nearest.' 

He’s always wondered about it; the who and the what and the _why_ and also the how, but somehow in retrospect, it just seems funny. Like a normal thing you’d do on a Saturday night and tell your friend about. He and Ivan aren’t friends, though. Not anymore, at least.

Ivan dissolves into laughter. ‘How does one even get themselves into that situation?’

Alfred is for a minute, quite struck by Ivan’s laughter. There’s something so inherently melodic about the rarity of such a response that for a minute Alfred’s own delight is forgotten. Through the haze of alcohol and embarrassment, and the strange camaraderie and ignorance, Alfred wonders why they’ve been fighting so fucking long while knowing the reasons all the same. He wonders why he never thought of kissing Ivan before, long ago, _long,_ long, long ago. He wonders why things worked out the way they did even though he can track it back to the very start. He thinks Ivan should laugh more, that he should make Ivan laugh more, and then he laughs at how delusional he sounds when he’s drunk.

‘Hey, I’m like fifty percent sure Mr. Stranger and I were both willing, okay,’ Alfred says. ‘Unlike somebody.’

There’s relative silence where they both just look at each other. Ivan looks at the empty champagne bottle between them and puts it to the side. He looks at the sharp shadows of orange light on Alfred’s face, casting off his cheek bones. He is overcome by a strange, resounding urge to fulfill his desire; the likes of which feel like a burning ember of flame he has never been able to put out completely. He leans in to kiss him, and the kiss is short, almost chaste. It is innocent and sweet in a way neither of them have been for centuries.

It’s a simple press of lips to lips, yet it’s much better than the rushed, outrageous insult to kissing that was their preceding effort. Ivan’s lips are soft, and Alfred’s lips are chapped, but it’s all the better for it. They’re naked, but they’re no other part of their body is touching apart from their lips. It’s a strange feeling, except somehow, it’s nice. Neither has spent this long simply kissing another person, simply because they can. Occasionally, the heady realization that this is _Ivan_ hits Alfred, while the same realization of the fact that he’s kissing _Alfred_ seems to stir something in Ivan.

Alfred deepens the kiss, so tentatively you’d think he was spying on something. Ivan for once, does not feel the need to make a vindictive, sarcastic comment, keeping in mind that it’s for both their benefit. Ivan traces the slight bow at Alfred’s lower lip as Alfred’s tongue licks against the side of his mouth, they gasp in unison, soft and small enough to allow Alfred to delve further. The sensations are new, but not altogether unpleasant.

This goes on for several moments before Alfred breaks the dam; he places his hand on the plane of Ivan’s chest, right over his heart, and moves closer. The contact sparks a domino collapse; they are a slowly but surely accelerating cataclysm of activity – Ivan’s hand grabbing Alfred’s waist to pull him closer, Alfred’s hand at the nape of Ivan’s neck. It’s easier now that they know what _not_ to do.

It’s Alfred who moves first; he can’t quite get rid of his impatience for anything in life. His hips twitch, the movement brings into contact sensitive nerve endings in way neither has felt. Ivan breaks the kiss, panting as their dicks slide against each other, slowly at first, then with a better angle as Ivan gets the rhythm. Alfred, silently, pulls a hail Mary and steals a trick he had Francis do – hoping all the while that actual experience is better than the porn he’d been depending so far on – and licks his hand to grab at both their dicks, and starts stroking simultaneously.

As Alfred continues, Ivan feels himself reduced to only the rushing of his blood, the body of his arch rival next to him, and this room he is in. For a minute, he forgets he is not Ivan only. He feels the band of sparking pleasure in his system crackle, and he only has a moment to crash his lips to Alfred’s before he is coming. Alfred tries to kiss him, except Alfred has only now realized how hard it is to kiss someone having an orgasm.

As Ivan breathes onto his neck, Alfred wonders if this is it, right before Ivan uses his own come to lessen the friction as he strokes Alfred. It takes a minute; the angle is relatively new, Ivan has never done this, and while France may have gone down on him, this wasn’t in the books that night. Once he’s moved Ivan’s hand slightly lower, a bit tighter in its grip, the ride is explosive. It’s been a long night, filled with desire that resembles a racecar that’s been stopped way too many times for a flat tire. When he achieves that plateau, Alfred shudders for a brief moment, groaning into Ivan’s mouth. It’s nice, he thinks, giggling inside, to breathe into someone’s mouth. Ivan seems to have had a similar moment, and realized how hard it is to kiss someone who’s moaning into your mouth.

They collapse next to each other again, albeit far more satisfied than they were in the previous instant. As the hormones flood their system, Alfred wonders if either of them is drunk enough to suggest cuddling.  Ivan isn’t used to such heat and there is a thin layer of sweat coating him. Alfred decides that he will never be drunk enough to cuddle with a sweaty person, especially since he himself is sweating. There is silence, like after all wars.

This doesn’t feel like a war, though.

Then, comes the ending: Alfred stands up to turn the thermostat down because he can’t quite bear the sheets at the point. Ivan takes this as a sign that whatever bubble they had created has finally burst, and stands to don his clothes. Looking at someone wearing pants while you yourself are naked makes Alfred feel strangely self-conscious, so he puts on his pants as well. They’re both slightly swaying, he realizes. Ivan sits on the corner of the bed to put his socks on.

Years later, when Alfred will recall the encounter, he will remember the socks most clearly.

When Ivan is done dressing, he stands there for a moment, confused as to how to accomplish the mental to-do list he’s got going. He’s suddenly remembered how much he’s had to drink because of how light-footed he feels. He doesn’t exactly know how he feels as of yet, even though there is no regret at this very moment.

He looks at Alfred. The younger nation looks as drunk and lost as Ivan does. Ivan walks towards the door, but before he can, Alfred calls out.

‘Hey,’ Alfred says, a small curve to his lips. ‘Not too bad, amirite?’

 Ivan doesn’t smile back. ‘Keeping in mind that consent was ample, and two rather well-deserved orgasms were had, I think we can ignore the early fumbling of the evening in question.’

Alfred raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, now all we need to do is wait till the morning and see if one of us forgets all of it.’

The laughter erupts again; Ivan can’t keep it locked away forever. Alfred’s smile grows and grows until he’s chuckling, and then full on laughing.

They both can’t accept how surreal it is, but they’ve made their own peace with this small exclusive moment of relative peace they’ve had. Neither are under any illusions as to what this may mean under the light of the morning and the eye of their superiors, in the eyes of the World Meeting and not in the confines of this hotel room in Geneva, in the arms of sobriety and not the throes of the influence – but there is a strange satisfaction in itself. They both, for once, understand each other completely and agree unanimously on the terms of an agreement.

 ‘See you around, Ivan,’ Alfred says. He seems less of a stranger, in the good way, for once.

Ivan smiles, and for once, it means nothing more than what it is. ‘See you around, Alfred.’

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **i.** so let's just say that this was going through my mind for a very long time??? it's based of some personal experiences and some stories from people regarding the whole topic of how hate-sex is terribly good, and how it's passionate and brutal and just all over unghh. except, it really isn't all that great, especially for two nations who have been overall portrayed as uninterested in any sort of physical or emotional shit. keeping in mind the lack of experience they both have, i wanted to make sure it all came across as realistic as is possible when writing gay porn. so yes, for all those who've never done it or get their knowledge from porn - sex is not easy. at all. lol, anyhow, that's just my crazy explanation for whoever is even reading this.
> 
>  **ii.** i'd love to know what everyone thought about this; i like to usually stay away from explicit stuff, but this was fighting to be written. as always, thank you to all my readers. bless you all, always.
> 
> \- xoxo, F.


End file.
